It Escapes Definition
by trufflemores
Summary: 4.01 AU. Barry doesn't spontaneously recover, but Iris and he still have a wonderful life. In this installment, the communication barriers between Barry and Team Flash prove challenging at times, but not always. Part of my "This Everything Between Us" series.


It's a different rush every time.

Sometimes, the world slows down without conscious action. One moment he crunches lightly through snow, listening to the hustle-and-bustle of city life; the next, he is ensconced in near-perfect silence but for the steady crackle of ice underfoot. The sound is glacial, almost prehistoric. It sends a thrill through him. He imagines the world when it was new, before snow, and feels a rush of gratitude for the cold.

On other occasions, the world seems to free-fall. One moment he is standing in the Cortex listening to his team talk in real time, and the next he is standing in a mausoleum. Holding his breath, he walks among the frozen figures, unable to confirm that they are alive. He keeps his gaze low in respect, his hands to himself. He imagines the world after them and wonders if there is anything sharp or strong enough to last.

When he sinks into the Speed Force mindset willingly, he is scarcely in more control. Without time to think about it, he runs into buildings that are burning themselves alive, catches bullets speeding towards their marks, and intercepts electrical impulses arcing towards their targets. In retaliation, he is struck down: he scorches himself in the super-heated air, shatters his thumb and forefinger on a bullet, convulses as a hundred thousand electrical knives sink into his skin. Empowered by the Speed Force, he launches himself into the fray, entering the arena before he sees his opponent.

Clinging to consciousness with numb, aching hands, he wishes he had thought for one moment before Speeding out onto the ice.

Breath coming in short gasps, he finds himself teetering between Speed-time and real time, stranded out in the frozen lake. Kicking his feet impotently, he tries to haul himself out onto the sheet of ice, but he can gain no purchase and make no progress, slipping inexorably backwards after every attempt. His struggles to emerge kick up enough water to form a thin liquid film on top of the ice; the adhesive glues his sleeves to the surface, keeping him above water when his feet still underneath him.

It's impossible to catch his breath, even when he stops moving. Resting his forehead on his arms, he thinks about the squalling, terrified doe stranded out on the ice. He can still hear her screams, high-pitched and afraid. Without thinking, he rushed out to save her, certain that he could help. Before he could reach her, the world caved in, and he realized in one horrible moment of clarity that the doe was gone.

There's a woman on the shoreline watching him die. He doesn't call out to her; it won't help him to try. Near the shore, there's a hole in the ice where an arctic seal emerged, its tracks terminating abruptly at the woman's exact position. Struggling to free himself, it took him a long moment to figure out what had happened. _Shape-shape-shapeshifter_.

Forcing circular suggestions through square holes is not easy; he does not even attempt to renormalize them into triangular sentences. Communicating his frustration and anguish will not alleviate them.

A thin groan escapes him, a soft concession to the precarious nature of his predicament. He cannot risk freeing a hand to beat the panic button on his suit; he can only hope that someone, _anyone_ is paying attention.

Still, he knows that eventually the suit will fail and send back no usable data to STAR Labs. Once that happens … he shivers, independent of the cold, because it might have already happened, and he wouldn't know it.

Wordlessly, the woman on shore transforms into a snow leopard, lying down and watching him without blinking. He aches for her ability to shed the cold like knives and embrace a thick, warm coat, gagging with cold. Fingers scrabbling at the ice, he loses his purchase altogether and plunges unexpectedly below the surface.

The initial shock is like a slap in the face, but once he is submerged, relief surfaces. Here it is quiet, and still, and heavy like the Speed Force. The pain vanishes; the ever-present cold becomes an afterthought. He moves his limbs sluggishly but does not contest the water around him. He does not need to breath when he moves in Speed time; he does not need to breathe down here, either.

It is magical, sinking down, down, down. He closes his eyes, embracing the beautiful lie.

A kick to the chest hits him like a heart attack. He jolts in surprise, mouth opening, cold-drowning-water rushing in. Lunging towards the surface, he breaks free with a strangled inhale, scrambling with renewed terror for purchase on the ice. What was that, what the _hell_ was that—

He dares to let go of the slick sheet with one hand to grasp the emblem on his suit, heart pounding. It's the – the – his mind runs blank. It starts with a p, or maybe a d, d and p are the same letter wearing different faces, like tragedy and comedy, upside-down. Fear that it will happen again gives him renewed strength to fight the cold-sinking-down dragging at his feet, but even fear cannot avail.

Gasping, he looks at the shore at the snow leopard and thinks, _Some stars are sharp, some stars are strong, but every star is burning out_. The leopard becomes blurrier in his field of view; he squints at her and cannot make the image clearer. _Burn out_ , he muses, fingers slipping without permission from their hold. _Burn out_.

He hears something crackle nearby and wants to look but cannot turn his head. The snow leopard vanishes, melting into – Barry only sees a blur of movement in the snow, a field mouse, perhaps. It doesn't matter, he thinks deliriously; he couldn't chase her even if he was on shore.

From a great distance he hears a voice shout his name. He tries again to turn to it, but he is frozen to the ice, arms refusing to move. A helpless laugh shudders through his chest. There's a second crackle, and Barry senses with sudden despair that he is alone.

It seems fitting on some level – he lives alone when he is in the Speed Force – but it doesn't make the emotion welling up in his throat more bearable. _I don't want to die_ , he thinks, because he has seen better futures, brighter futures, futures like galaxies, huge beyond imagining, and he doesn't want to watch the light dim from them, snatched away by an impulse he did not think to stop.

Then there's another crackle and the same voice is back, but something is wrong with his ears because the voice is splitting into two voices – or maybe there are two people, he can't decide. He hears a sound like wind scouring a tundra, a low, soft hiss and flinches as it nears him. His eyelashes are covered in ice; even if he could turn his head, he isn't sure he could tell what it is. He almost doesn't want to, closing his eyes and hoping that if it hurts, it will be quick.

Something crashes down next to him and he flinches again. Sluggishly hauling himself away – _no, no, don't touch me, please_ , he just wants to be free, he just wants to be free – he can't escape strong hands digging painfully into his arms, hauling him forward. He lets out a thin whine of pain, but it's barely audibly over the commotion: scraping ice, a distorted voice, a familiar voice breathless and very close, a lot of noise in a noiseless world, and he slows down, again, bobbing back under the Speed-surface.

Recognition passes through him, but he can't place names, even slowed-down, he can't think of anything other than the needle-sharp cold digging into every extremity, every limb and muscle and bone. He sees the hands on his own arms, now frozen in time, and wonders if he would die like this, frozen in time while they tried to save him in another world.

Then it snaps back with capsizing quickness and he feels himself pulled forward with sled-dog urgency onto the ice, and it's thick, a _lot_ thicker than it should be. It hurts where it presses against his sternum, and he tries to back off, but the sled dog won't let go of him. Vaguely, he knows that it's not a dog, but it might as well be one: his rescuer hauls with such gusto that he wonders if either or both of his shoulders will dislocate before the lake surrenders.

All at once, he slides fully out of the water. He's only on the thicker ice for an instant before he's being hauled upright. His breath is caught in his chest, overwhelmed by the temperature change, and he cannot cry out even though he is moved too quickly. The cold, icy lake disappears as they pass through a portal to another realm, and for a moment he sees the golden-silver-bronze light that characterizes the world outside of the world, the extra-multiversal space, and then he's being hauled onto a concrete floor.

He blinks eyes forgetting how to discern reality from visual noise, an inverted world superposing itself on the scene, breaking down the familiar space. The monochrome field cuts in dramatically and unexpectedly, casting strange hints of darkness and light over the fading color underneath it.

His rescuers – the sled dog and the sled dog's companion – interact with him. They talk to him, but he cannot make out the language because none of the words are words at all. They touch him, tactilely communicating, but he cannot make any of the muscles in his limbs respond, refusing to reject or accept the contact. His eyelids slide shut for a long blink that lasts for a Speed-second, or maybe a Speed-century, he can never be sure anymore…

When he opens his eyes again, the scene has changed entirely.

He tries to sit upright and finds himself too heavy to move, sighing in defeat. Instantly, the object next to him morphs into a person, looking at him with a furrowed brow. For a moment he cannot make the wrong images go away, the blurry, sharp-edge occlusions from another world inducing a crushing headache, but then the world sinks back into focus, and he sees her. "Barry?" she asks.

"Red," he croaks, because it's easier to say _red_ than _I can't remember your name_ , he wants to remember, he _knows_ he remembers, but everything in his head is slow, the world is slow, how is she still with him if he is this slow? Slurring, he asks, "Drown?"

She shakes her head. "No," she says. "You didn't drown. We're at STAR Labs."

He exhales. STAR. That explains all the stars, little flickering points of light. He squints, reaching up to hold a hand over his eyes, and she rises and flicks off the light. He lowers his hand. Cautiously, fearfully – _don't touch them, don't touch the dead_ – he extends it towards her. She intertwines their fingers, and he can feel her warmth.

A tear works down his cheek. "Ice – broke," he says, straining to explain what he knows he does not have enough words for. "Broke – drown." But it leaves out the motive, the purpose of the story, and he makes a frustrated sound, prying with his other hand for his book, his book, he needs his book, she will understand if he explains it –

But it's not near him, where is it, _where is it?_

"Drown, crown, sound, bound, k-kound," he falters. "Drown," he repeats, starting over, but only makes it to "sound" before he loses the rhythm of the thing, the triangular neatness of the thing, the noise in his head translating only impressionistically into words. He feels frustration arise because he hasn't even approached the thing, the squalling, screaming, terrified animal who – he was just _needed_ , how could he not react, how could he not respond?

"Downed," he grates out. " _Down_."

He aches suddenly for a picture, a picture would tell everything, but how can he show her anything when he has no picture, how can he possibly reach across the great invisible everything between them, how, how, _how?_

She brings his hand up to her lips, holding it there, and he can almost read it, almost. _Shh_.

His heart beat slows down, but his world does not, because he can still see her chest rise, and fall, rise, and fall, like a seesaw. He loved seesaws when they were kids, when they were kids none of this seemed so _big_ , being a – a – a Nero-zero- _hero_ was pretend, playful, perfect.

Gently, he pulls his hand back towards himself; she lets it go without question. Holding it up, he tips it back and forth, fingers shaking a little. _Seesaw_ , he wants to say, but it's not a word, it's a _feeling_ , it's being let outside and believing tirelessly in the future, in bigger, better, never worrying about the limits of their own selves. It was knowing more than he did a year ago, feeling stronger than he did a year ago, being more independent than he was a year ago – growing, together and apart.

He motions for a camera he knows is not around his neck, holding it up. _I want to show you something_.

He doesn't know how she sees it – only knows in the way he taps the table beside her lightly, gently alerting her to his presence before showing her his camera, _I want to show you something_ – but she nods and helps him sit up. He's stiff and sore and more tired than he expects, a lot more tired, _I need to sleep for twelve months_ tired, but he doesn't let it stop him. While he sits up, she fetches – he knows their names, he _knows_ their names, but he can't verbalize them, and without the audible confirmation the names almost do not exist, only the people belonging to them.

The cold-ice-tundra-hiss woman unhooks him from everything tying him back to the bed. _I know your name_ helps him on a heavy shirt, a good shirt, and his grey coat, because the grey coat is his concession to the world, _I will follow your rules if you listen to me_ , and it listens when he is calm and cool and wearing a grey coat like this. It is his ID tag, his smile. _I am just like you_.

He can tell the cold-woman is uneasy when he sweeps _I know your name_ into his arms, but he doesn't let her unease make him quit. He has to share this. He needs her to _know_.

Everything is covered in snow, and he's reminded of the bite, the aching _rawness_ in his skin that hasn't been smoothed away by the lightning yet. He doesn't verbalize it, doesn't let a hint of it slip into the air, even if she squeezes his hand like she knows. Stepping through the playground, he approaches the seesaw and holds up his hand again. He tips it deliberately back and forth.

She takes a seat on the low-end, effortlessly graceful, and he hesitates, afraid that he will lose his nerve because he is not as graceful as she is, he is not as _effortless_ as she is, but he sits on the opposite side and finds that even though his hands shake and it isn't a simple, fluid motion, he's still where he wants to be. He smiles at her, laughs a little when he lets his full weight rest on the seat, promptly switching their elevations.

He puts weight on his feet, standing slowly, pausing when they're level. It's oddly fitting, he thinks, that his legs shake where hers are stretched out in front of her, her entire weight buoyed up by him easily. She looks at him with a relaxed smile, relaxed shoulders, and he feels his throat tighten, because she couldn't stop herself from hitting the ground hard, she _trusts_ him, and is he ever going to deserve it? Can he ever earn it?

He lifts his full weight off the seesaw carefully, and she rests on the ground with a gentle thump, looking up at him, smiling. Relieved, he sits down, a little clumsily, a little too heavily, she shoots up and bounces a little, laughing, and his sheepish apology is burned on his ears but never reaches his lips.

 _I miss being young_ , he thinks, because they were never always on the same page, but they were somehow always close enough that he knew she understood what he meant. _I miss being effortless_.

He folds his arms on top of the handle, looking up at her, quietly admiring her. He can't even remember what she looks like young – he is too struck by how beautiful she is now. She mirrors him and his heart feels too big for his chest, how can he ever _deserve_ her?

 _What are you thinking about?_ she asks, eyebrows up, light, inquisitive.

He shakes his head a little. _Couldn't tell you if I wanted to,_ he think ruefully, because how could he, he can't even remember her _name_.

He averts his gaze, looking down at the bar in front of him. She slides off the seesaw, but his elevation doesn't change; he's already on the ground. He hears the snow crunch and doesn't look, but he nods once affirmatively and then she's hugging him from behind, her chin resting on his head, arms tucked under his. He holds her hands to his chest like they're sacred, bringing them to his lips for a moment, _I don't need words with you_.

"I love you," she says, and he is glad she cannot see his face, could never verbalize the sheer anguish that he will never be able to voice how much he _loves_ her. "I love _you_ ," she insists, tilting her head, kissing his temple. He closes his eyes, cradling her hands against his heart.

 _I love you_ , he aches to say with every heartbeat, faster, faster than hers could ever be, oh, how he would love to bring her to this place of perfect stillness, but she _is_ that place of perfect stillness, he doesn't need to run to keep up with her, doesn't have to worry he'll be left behind with her, can think and breathe and _be_ with her, instead of rushing headfirst into the next catastrophe.

"Iris," he whispers, all at once, and she squeezes him gently, and he wants to sob. He shifts, and she lets go, and with a gracelessness that feels learned, _how do I keep going if I can't learn anything new?_ , he makes it to his feet. She steps into his arms and he hugs her, aching for his notebook, aching for some way to show her he understands.

He doesn't _understand,_ but he knows that he has to play by their rulebook to be heard, and no matter how good he is he is not good _enough_ , he is still struggling with the first page because _there are so many rules_ that no one ever wrote down, even the universe inscribes its stories in stone, but not – not _people_ , everything is said on a frequency he cannot hear, leaving the story unfinished, the message lost.

So much is lost in translation that even though they inhabit the same world, he doesn't know how to convey his awareness of her and her place in it, how to explain that he recognizes her even when he can't name her. _I don't need your name to love you_ , he thinks, nuzzling her shoulder.

 _I don't need you to say it,_ she says, swaying with him, _staying_ with him, and in the stillness he finds calmness, because even when the whole world caves in, if he can come home to this, he'll be okay.

. o .

In the end, he doesn't need words to break the communication barrier down – Cisco Vibes it, revisiting the ice with him, and Barry watches the doe struggling and feels the exact same impulse as before, _run, run, help her_ , because it doesn't matter how many times he is burned or beaten, tossed around or torn apart –

He will die in pursuit before he lives with inaction.

Looking at his family, standing in the Cortex, deliberately staying in the present, he finds the courage to hug them, bleeding gratitude, _thank you_ , and they squeeze him back without asking more, and maybe that's what it means to love someone.


End file.
